Toxic Bliss (9)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (9)"
    
Thus wends the weird of corporeal culmination;
Hence, does exit the Ghosts from every Magnanimous Nation;
Regardless, to live in the Hereafter is an event for most mortal souls,
Having to face the Divine Justice System, yet the verbal confession of Christ pays tolls;
Therefore, have no freakish phobia concerning crossing over,
For goes the 1980's Rock Star for never being sober;
Alas, sick is sick, and medicine should be mercifully allowed,
For all conditions will ultimately lead to a death-faced shroud.
   
* * * * * * * *
   
   Just a kinda/sorta axiomatic quote from Wernher von Braun as memorized from the first aspects of Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, like this:

   "Nature knows not extinction--all it knows is transformation.  Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, is that there is a spiritual existence after death."   
  

Toxic Bliss (8)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (8)"
    
   Simon contacted his neighbor dubbed Buzz.  Dude delivered pizzas for a local Mom and Pop pie establishment--yes, they were true, hairy Italians, mixed a little with French; hence, the delicious and exotic pies were to be elegantly delivered, and Buzz was the man.
   Buzz had just ran some anchovy miles in his Dodge Dart.  He had improved intake; plus, outtake, redesigning the exhaust in his parents' garage, like Iron Man, and like a Middle-Aged Jack Kerouac--he lived with his Mom, Dad too though.   Anyway, Buzz had just dropped off a steaming anchovy with Gummi Bear pizza, and, extra cheese, "please" said the pregnant housewife, so single, and Buzz was in love, getting an Alexander Hamilton tip, ironed, or so it seemed, and very very crispy, totally so.  Yup, it was love, and the single housewife blew him a kiss before hungrily opening the box like a devouring wolverine and burning her esophagus on the hot cheese, but still going:  "Yummy."
   So, Buzz was Simon's babysitter for his frail father.  And having trust in the quirky neighbor, Simon took a lime-green taxi to the gastroenterologist for his yearly colonoscopy.  As always--it was a nightmare.  The day before always consisted of torturous cleansing, crapping poop juice until running clear, and with it, a bit of slimy gore included in the runny pseudo-stool.  If only he lived in the American West, they'd try cannabis oil to reduce inflammation and pain; then, do a fecal matter transplant, but the South was years behind; indeed, they are changing the world out West. 
   At least Simon got the Michael Jackson medicine to put him night night.  He started to tell the anesthesiologist about Bubbles, Mr. Smiley, or whatever the hell Michael Jackson's chimp was named; next, he went out as easy as cheesecake with a dash of cherries on top, as if a Mafia Hitman had turned him off like a delicious light.

Toxic Bliss (7)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (7)"
    
Simon was watching Richard Burton in THE ROBE,
A Roman-styled film with emphasis on Christ's Kingdom ringing in the earlobe;
Moreover, his father informed him that Mr. Burton could throw back the adult juice,
Marrying the most lovely ladies with pomp and spruce;
Indeed, it was a Messianic movie with the Supernatural told
So that the sinners we all are will with angel's wings unfold,
If we grasp for the Heavens in mystical manner,
Transcending the cliche of doing darling and dandy only on our Sunday planner;
Specifically, the mystic bed must always be made--
So grease the goose and feed the beast,
Resist not evil with mercurial scatterfeet,
But only steal God's Heart with benevolence and sublimity,
Defying even with levitation to trump gravity;
Next, the Holy Spirit does enter
Into your body, animating every word; moreover, every letter.      

Toxic Bliss (6)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (6)"
    
   Simon was sincerely exhausted.  Same old same old; specifically, changing, feeding, brushing his Dad--you know the rest; plus, all the metaphysical/spiritual compulsions to better-off his father and his own OCD with Tics.  Yeah, of course the garden-variety bullshit passed around at local taverns, where big-boobed hussies and dart throwing is the order of the night, followed by a smooth lager and some soul searching with the blitzed patron lap-dancing upon your intoxicated consciousness.  What a freaking blast--Simon missed David's Psalm:  "Wine to make man's heart happy."
   But it was beyond.  Verily, it did outshine with perplexing weirdness, the religious cleansing, the imbibing of Christ's blood, and the burning of incense and gemstones to radiate into your personal healing factor, boosting immunity and all the rest; alas, the VIVID IMAGERY, and sometimes animated--speaking, moving with dexterity, beyond you, yet so tangibly surreal.  
   Thus, the anti-psychotics, in case the Otherworldy visitations were negative, having a squeeze of demonic twist, shaken, not stirred, and so are you, never being a good-looking womanizer, never so lucky, but charmed into the bizarre madness of things unearthly.  And the Holy Spirit, so vivid with images of hues and colors, shocking the more than five senses into a state of beaming bliss.  

Toxic Bliss (5)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (5)"
    
   And a heart-shaped box from the visitors, glowing with a gleam unearthly, resonating from True Divinity, and the more-than-nuclear hands of angels making a delivery in 30 minutes or less.  Simon noticed nothing save the weight of his father in his arms, uplifting the downtrodden to a toilet bowl sanctuary, the patriarch's tears flowing with an almost irritation to both father and son, as they always did, testing true patience, and then, a bowel evacuation--a true release of internal pressure, and a child's smile on his demented, yet so beautiful face of gold.
   Simon returned him to his safety chair, fed him yogurt with strawberries, a glass of green tea, and a handful of pills to be choked down; next, he took his own, juggling two diseases; plus, his psychiatric interference, dismissing the political soundbites of Sunday morning news, where bullshit is always the topic of the day--they always say "Middle Class" and not FREAKING POOR PEOPLE, especially knowing that stress outshines genetics where so many cancerous things are concerned.
   No order of the day for angels, locked in eternal combat with the fallen, and it all denied, yet the sub-culture pushes and drops hints of tangible truth, yet dubbed pseudo-science and the rest, that American Green in the bank making it easier to golf, party, count your bland achievements, while denouncing with your pornographic glee, the impotence of others, working harder to please the benevolent hearts of those crowned by weakness.
   Next, Simon did find a smile upon glancing his thin, lean body; he was animated by something Otherworldly--had to be to complete all the labor he was engaged in, knowing his small frame transcended muscle--dude was all gristle, growing more grizzly steel by time uncounted.  

Toxic Bliss (4)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (4)"
   
   This was not Simon's first mystical rodeo; specifically, the Nordic females were no coyotes, but creatures assisting him in navigation beyond death, past that Sublime Perimeter, where the Otherworld exists--if not being ubiquitously cool and all encompassing, on some levels.  Regardless, Simon followed Frankie, the white coyote with one arctic-blue eye, and another shimmering-sunshine eye farther into the glacial pasture, way atop the equator.
    
SIMON
So, I guess it's not a cockroach and Keith Richards that can survive a nuclear war, but a coyote and Keith Richards.
   
FRANKIE
Be easy on the guy.  Being an addict doesn't mean you can't quit.  Statistics, blah.  The coyote is an anomaly.  After 30 years of heroin for the Rolling Stone, Jack Daniels is like mother's milk to him.
   
SIMON
Is he in touch with the Otherworld?

FRANKIE
Not in my district.  And those blonde angels, them Valkyries for your bravery of endurance--you have friends Simon.  It's just that those without eyes and ears cannot perceive us.

SIMON
Will you help my Dad?
   
FRANKIE
We have been--feeding you the mercy to do so.  Now come on--we should find some mice to pounce on.   

Toxic Bliss (3)

   
   "Toxic Bliss (3)"
    
   Simon braved the daymarish day; next, endured with little solace, brushing his father's teeth, feeding him peaches and chocolate ice cream; then, changing his steaming diaper, offering the sanctuary of a cleansing wipe, carried him to bed with his own weak gut and mind; furthermore, said a HAIL MARY and made the sign of the cross over him, hoping the garnet under his pillow would bring a higher level of cognizance and mobility.  Exhausted, Simon collapsed into his own bed, gave an ACT OF CONTRITION to God, and felt a glowing glimmer atop his forehead, and he was in the uncanny Otherworld.   A coyote, all white with one blue and one yellow eye approached, the Canis Latrans introduced itself as Frankie, it was in a glacial pasture, Northwards.   
    
FRANKIE
Don't touch anything unless invited.  Too, don't follow me.  The American Indian recognizes the Totem of trickster; nevertheless, more--stealing fire to gift to man, hiding our death in our tails.  You can't kill the coyote.  We thrive under negativity.  So must you. I will guide you to the Otherworld upon death--this is no trick.  You saved me Simon.  You brought God to your father, as the coyote will bring Grandfather, that Great Spirit to the people.

SIMON
What do I do now?

FRANKIE
Don't be sad.  Don't engage melancholy.  Adapt.  And we have the best digestive tracts on Terra's surface.  Toxic waste or an omnivorous diet, whatever, we give the Earth blessed scat.